


The Language of the Flowers

by Melanie_Athene



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Related, M/M, Post-Episode: s13e13 Devil's Bargain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-03
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-26 09:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13854441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: “I should have known it wasn’t him,” Dean said to himself.  “No matter how perfect Asmodeus’s impersonation of Cas’s voice was, I should have known something was off.”





	The Language of the Flowers

  


_“Cas, I’m sorry. All that time you were with Asmodeus... I-I- We should have known.”_

_“Well, he’s a shape-shifter. Besides, I-I was the one who got myself captured.”_

_“Yeah, but if Sam and I knew, you know, we would’ve...”_

_“Yeah, I know. I know. You would’ve tried another long shot. I’m fine, Dean.”_

_“You sure about that?”_

_“Right now, all that matters is getting Jack and your mother out of that place. Okay?”_

 

Dean’s mind couldn’t stop replaying that conversation. Over and over it looped, and each time Dean shook his head at his own foolishness, typically assuming the blame and shouldering the shitload of guilt that accompanied it. Yet again, they’d failed Castiel. Failed to be there when he needed them. Failed to make him understand that _that_ wasn’t okay – that _he_ wasn’t okay. No one would be ‘fine’ after the ordeal he’d just been through: kidnapped, imprisoned, tormented, attacked by Lucifer and left for dead. They’d lost him too damned many times over the years. Had lost him this time, and hadn’t even realized he was lost.

And that was nowhere near okay. Not even close. 

“I should have known it wasn’t him,” Dean said to himself, stretched out on his comfy memory foam mattress, weary to the bone, but endless miles away from sleep. “No matter how perfect Asmodeus’s impersonation of Cas’s voice was, I should have known something was off.”

But he hadn’t... and there was no guarantee that he would in the future. 

That shape-shifting bastard was still out there, prancing around with Cas’s phone in his pocket and the Winchesters on speed dial. He had probably already set the display to read ‘private caller’ so they couldn’t weed him out from legitimate calls. Who knew what new lies he’d manage to feed them, leaving them ever uncertain if they were speaking with the real Castiel or the evil Colonel Sanders wannabe.

Not for the first time, Dean found himself wishing that prayer was a two way street. It would be nice to know for sure where Castiel was, what he was doing, if he was okay or locked up somewhere. Of course, that wasn’t an option. Had never been an option. Castiel had always had to phone it in if he wanted two way communication via long distance.

Fortunately, a cell phone was an easy thing to replace. Castiel already had a shiny new one; Dean had programmed it himself, customized ringtones and all. But that link to the angel was tenuous at best. Phones got lost or stolen all the time. People got lost or stolen too. It was a dangerous world out there. Short of chaining Castiel up in the dungeon – tempting though that idea might be right now (and, yes, the irony of it wasn’t lost on Dean) – there was no way to know if he was safe when he inevitably stepped out the door and pulled one of his disappearing acts. And, realistically, Dean had to accept that the angel _would_ strike off on his own again. Most likely sooner, rather than later. 

“Never let it be said he sticks around long,” Dean muttered. “It’s not like he wants to hang around here with me – with _us!_ – in the Bunker. Stupid angel stuff to do. Stupid places to go. Stupid me for wishing things were different.”

A soft knock at his bedroom door interrupted the downward spiral of Dean’s thoughts. He hadn’t heard a Sasquatch’s feet galumphing down the hallway, so that left only one possibility as to who his late-night visitor would be.

“Come in, Cas,” he said.

“You’re thinking too loudly, Dean,” Castiel grumbled, stepping inside the room and shutting the door behind him.

“You eavesdropping on me, buddy?”

“No. I saw your light was on. And I know you. I know you’re in here blaming yourself, but it wasn’t your fault, Dean. I accept the consequences of my decisions. Freedom of choice is a double-edged sword. It’s also a right I think I’ve earned.”

Yeah, I guess you have,” Dean grudgingly admitted, rising from his bed and taking a few steps towards the angel, drawn into his orbit without any conscious decision on his part. Castiel stepped forward too, until they stood close, too close, closer than Dean normally allowed anyone, even Sam. Not touching, never that, but mere inches away from doing so.

Their eyes met and held as they had so many times before, uncounted seconds passing by as they silently stood and stared. 

Castiel was the first to look away, first his gaze and then his body angling away from Dean. He wandered over to the shelf above Dean’s bed, and stood there a few moments before picking up an item, seemingly at random, gently cradling it in his hands before carefully returning it to its original spot.

“Dean...” he said, turning finally to once again face the hunter.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” 

Castiel nodded. “I have a lead on Lucifer.”

“You could be walking into another trap.”

“Yes. I could be. But it’s a risk I have to take. For Jack. For your mother. For you and Sam.”

“Let me – let us come with you.”

“Not this time. My contact won’t show if he senses a human’s presence. I shouldn’t be gone long. A day or two at the most. And I’ll phone often to keep you apprised of my progress.”

 _Because that works so well..._ Dean thought bitterly, staring at the familiar, rumpled figure that stood before him, and wondering if this would be the last time he saw him.

A sick, sinking feeling in his gut told him he wasn’t prepared for that, would never be ready to say goodbye to the infuriating, wonderful being who had become the best friend he’d ever had. Someone he treasured – as he did Sam. Someone he wanted to protect – again, like Sam. If only he could find the words to say, to make Castiel understand how much he – 

And then it came to him in a sudden, beautiful rush. Words. A safe word. That was what they needed to prove they were who they claimed to be, when all they had to go on was a disembodied voice on the phone.

“Funky town. Poughkeepsie,” he blurted.

Castiel tilted his head and looked at Dean as if he thought the man might be having a stroke.

Fortunately, it didn’t take long to familiarize Castiel with the concept of a secret code, but he was adamant that they shouldn’t use the same word over and over. That ran the risk of someone cracking the code. Furthermore, Poughkeepsie’s meaning to the brothers was set in stone: ‘drop everything and run.’ Not only did that not apply to their current dilemma, but it was also quite likely common knowledge in the circles of Hell by now. Crowley'd had loose lips when deep in his cups back in the day, and little demons had big ears. As for funky town, he didn’t have the time or patience to listen to Dean’s long-winded explanation about how, precisely, a town could be funky.

“Floriography,” he suggested, after a few moments of contemplation.

“Florrywho now?” Dean said.

“Flowers, Dean. I will name a flower each time I call. If I question your identity, or Sam’s, you will respond with a different kind of flower.”

“That seems kinda girly, Cas.”

“Which is exactly why it’s a good choice. No one would ever suspect Dean Winchester of using flowers to communicate. Animals, perhaps, musicians or sports teams, but never flowers. Besides, the language of flowers is quite precise. We can tailor our messages.”

“Huh?”

“Or not.” Castiel sighed. “I have to go, Dean. Arbutus.”

“Yeah, yeah, Cas. Whatever.”

  


  


“Flowers. Floriography,” Sam said, as he ambled across the kitchen to refill his mug with coffee. “Huh, that’s actually quite brilliant. We can tailor our messages.”

“That’s what Cas said.” Dean frowned as he squeezed in next to Sam at the counter, eager to get a first cup before Sam drained the pot with his third. “I don’t know what he meant. A rose is a rose is a rose, am I right?”

“Well, it depends on the colour...”

“Cas didn’t say anything about colour. Pick a flower, heh-heh. That’s all he said.”

“There’s a book in the library if you’re interested,” Sam offered. “ Floriography is a fascinating field. Field, get it?” He elbowed Dean. “You see what I did there?”

“You’re a laugh a minute, Sammy.”

“Have you heard from Cas yet?” Sam finally allowed himself to be nudged aside.

“Yeah.” Dean scowled at the coffee grounds floating in his half full cup. “Mr. Moonflower said it’s going to take longer than he thought. Without wings they have to drive to L.A.”

“Must be one hell of a lead if he’s chasing after it that far.”

“Yeah, well, you know Cas. Always willing to go the extra mile.”

“Hmm.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Sounds to me like someone is missing his Moonbeam.”

“Moon _flower_.”

“Same difference.” Sam snickered and dodged the day old bagel his brother chucked at his head.

  


  


A week passed. By then, Castiel’s phone calls had degenerated to text messages, but each message was always accompanied with the name of a flower. Indeed, as it drew into the second week, sometimes the text only consisted of a flower type.

“I think he’s making shit up,” Dean grumbled one evening as the witching hour approached.. “What the hell is a Ran-uncle-us?”

Sam looked up from the tome he was perusing. “Ranunculus?”

“Whatever, brainiac. What the hell is it?”

Sam reached for a smaller, equally ancient-looking book and quickly leafed through its pages. “Members of the genus include buttercups,” he read. “The cultivated version has rose-like blossoms.”

“And you happen to have that book handy because...?”

“I’ve been deciphering Cas’s messages as they come in.” Sam pulled out his cellphone and scrolled through the texts. “Acacia, Primrose, Carolina Syringa.”

“Meaning?”

“Friendship, confidence, disappointment. His trip started off well, but that changed.” Sam flipped to the most recent entries. “Meadowsweet, Bilberry, Lavender. Uselessness, treachery, failure.”

“You got all that from a bunch of flowers?”

“I told you, Dean, there’s a longstanding tradition of flowers having specific meanings.”

“I thought you were joking.”

“No, Dean, it’s very real.” Sam’s brow crinkled in that way that meant he was thinking, hard, and when he reached a conclusion, it inevitably wasn’t going to be anything Dean liked.

That proved to be very true.

“What kind of flowers has he been sending you, Dean?” Sam asked.

“Uh... the flowery kind?”

“You haven’t been decoding his messages, have you.”

“I didn’t think there was a message, Sam! Code words. That’s all the flowers are. Just a tip off to let me know Cas is alive and kicking and it’s really him. I mean, c’mon, how would he know the meaning of every flower?”

“I don’t know, Dean. Maybe Metatron downloaded the info into his brain. Maybe it’s an angel thing, part of being born knowing every language that ever was. What does it matter? He knows. And now you need to know what he’s been trying to tell you.”

Sam held out his hand.

“Dean...”

“Sam?”

“Give me your phone.”

“No.”

“Give me your phone, or I’ll come over there and take it.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

Fortunately, Dean backed down before their staring match escalated into a free-for-all. “Fine,” he snapped. “I’ll read them off to you.”

“Start with the oldest ones first,” Sam ordered, graciously accepting the compromise.

Dean nobly refrained from sticking his tongue out at his brother. “Okay,” he said, scrolling back through the texts. “Here you go. Gillyflower.”

“Bonds of affection,” Sam said after a few minutes of flipping through the pages of the book. 

“Um... okay.”

“What else is there?”

“Blue Violet.”

“Faithfulness.”

“Hawthorn.”

“Hope.”

Dean felt a light sweat break out on his brow. “Myrtle, Red Chrysanthemum, Dogwood, Aster.”

“Love.”

“Which one?”

“All of them.”

“Oh...” Dean said in a tiny voice.

“It would appear,” Sam observed wryly, “you and I have been receiving very different messages from Moonflower – which just happens to mean ‘dreaming of love’ in case you were wondering. And Ranunculus...” He snorted as his eyes scanned the words on that particular page. “That means ‘you are radiant with charms.’ Oh, Dean, how could _that_ have escaped my notice all these years?”

“Shut up,” Dean growled just as the ping of an incoming message sounded from each of their phones.

Sam glanced at his screen, and quickly leafed through his book. “Queen Anne’s Lace... Sanctuary. He’s coming home.”

This time, Dean held his phone out to his brother without argument. “I can’t bear to look.”

“Lily of the Valley,” Sam said, and after a seemingly interminable pause continued, “Return of happiness. He’s coming home to you, Dean. And, God knows why, but that makes him happy.”

  


  


Long after Sam had retired for the night, Dean crept down the hall and stole the flower book from the War Room table. Safely back in his own room, he sat on his bed and breathed out a sigh of relief. He so did not need a nosey brother peering over his shoulder right now, especially if the flower Castiel had named before heading out on his wild goose chase turned out to be as incriminating as Dean suspected it might be.

“Arbutus,” he muttered, flipping through the pages. “Amaranthus. Anemone. Ha! Arbutus.” Dean drew a deep breath before allowing his eyes to travel from the ornate heading, past a beautifully drawn image, down the page to the text itself. 

_Thee only do I love,_ he read.

Dean slammed the book shut and cast it aside as if it had burned his hands. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he said. “ ‘Thee only do I love.’ And what was my reply? _Whatever._ ” He closed his eyes, mentally replaying the scene, focusing on the deliberately blank look that had swept across Castiel’s face as he turned to leave, his overture rejected.

But had the angel let that little setback stop him? Oh no, the stubborn bastard had persisted, sending a veritable, virtual bouquet to the unwitting recipient of his love. Hoping against hope that the oblivious Dean would eventually clue in. 

_And I finally did,_ Dean thought. _Message received loud and clear: you love me._

Love...

It wasn’t the first time Castiel had expressed this sentiment. But he had been dying then, desperate and near delirious, and his whispered _“I love you”_ had been directed at them all. Or so Dean had made himself believe. Never mind that the angel’s eyes had been tightly locked with his as those three little words slipped from his trembling lips. But whatever expression he had read on Dean’s face had been enough to make him drop his gaze and qualify his statement to _“I love you all.”_

They never spoke of it again.

But, months later, when Dean found himself kneeling beside Castiel’s prone body, the dark sweep of ashes outlining the shape of the fallen angel’s wings – when he knew, really knew, that this time Castiel was gone for good – something inside of him had died too. Oh, sure, he had mourned the loss of friends and family before. His mom and dad. Jo and Ellen. Bobby. Kevin. Charlie... He knew all too well what grief felt like, was overly familiar with its vicious sting. But not like this. Never like this. The pit of despair Castiel’s death opened in his soul could never be filled. 

_And that was when I finally admitted to myself that I loved him – had loved him for years – but it was too damned late to do anything about it._

That bitter knowledge was almost worse than the physical loss of the angel. Castiel died not knowing he was loved... and now he’d never know. This damnable fact taunted Dean day and night, twisting his stomach into knots to the point that the sight of a burger made him nauseous; even pie lacked its usual appeal. Nothing tempted his appetite. He ate only because it was necessary to keep his body functioning. But it all tasted of mud and ash. 

His old friend the bottle hadn’t helped to numb the pain, failing to give him the oblivion he craved. But that was probably just as well. Had he been able to slip into a deep slumber, nightmares would have plagued him. Instead, he’d lain awake in bed the greater part of each night, his eyes boring holes in the darkness, counting the minutes, the hours, the days, since Castiel had died. It had been a near impossible task to get out of bed in the morning, to dress, to place one foot in front of the other and keep on carrying on. Most days, he’d found himself thinking that he’d be better off dead too. 

And then, miraculously, Castiel was back from the dead again.

And Dean was positively giddy with relief, bubbling over with happiness and energy.

Not that his euphoria lasted long. Because all of Castiel’s focus was on finding Jack. Protecting Jack. Jack this, Jack that. Jack, Jack, Jack. And when he did phone, who did he most often call? Sam. Of course, that might have been Asmodeus’s fault, choosing to contact the wrong Winchester. But, still, it hurt to think that he and Castiel were drifting apart.

“What was a boy to do?” Dean whispered. “You know me – always thinking the worst of myself. Not worthy of an angel. Undeserving of love. I thought you’d changed your mind, Cas. That you’d been... rebooted, reprogrammed... whatever. That your love for me was gone.”

Not for the first time, Dean Winchester had been proven wrong.

_Cas loves me..._

A little smile tugged at the corner of Dean’s mouth. 

_And I love him too._

The smile grew and blossomed across Dean’s face.

_The only question that remains is: how the hell do I let him know?_

  


  


Dean spent much of the rest of the night reading through the book of flowers. But the more he read, the more confused he became. How the hell was he supposed to pick a single flower to express the way Castiel made him feel? There were so many flowers to choose from, so many nuances to consider, and he wasn’t a nuance-y kind of guy. That was more Sam’s forte. Dean preferred to keep things plain and simple. That approach to life had carried him this far, why should this situation be any different? On the other hand, Castiel really seemed to be into the whole crazy flower talk thing...

_I’ve disappointed him so often, I can’t bear the thought of disappointing him this time too._

Dean sighed and closed the book. Maybe a good night’s sleep – or what was left of the night – would help clear his mind.

But at 3:00 am, after much tossing and turning, he finally gave that idea up as a lost cause, and sat on the edge of his bed, head in hands, elbows on knees, until his mind finally stopped spinning in circles and all his scattered thoughts spiralled down a single path to a conclusion that should have been obvious from the start.

What flower did every desperate man resort to when he wanted to make amends or woo the pants off of someone special? What flower worked its way into sonnets and songs and popped up everywhere you looked on Valentine’s Day? 

“Yeah,” Dean said, as he tumbled back into bed, hoping to finally snatch a few Z’s. “That’ll work.”

  


  


By the time Sam emerged from his room a few hours later, ready for his early morning run, Dean was already up and dressed and sitting at the table helping himself to the use of Sam’s laptop.

“You’d better not be looking at porn,” Sam warned. “It took me the better part of a week to clean out all the viruses you downloaded last time.”

“Is it my fault your antivirus sucks?” Dean replied. “But, for your information, that’s not what I’m doing. I’m researching a case.”

“We’re going on a hunt?”

“No, Sam. _We_ are not. _You_ are. Something easy that won’t mess up your hair or get you killed. I’ve already checked with Jody, and she said she’d provide backup. There’s a White Lady haunting a stretch of highway not too far from her place. She’s been meaning to gank it, but – ”

“You’re pawning me off on Jody? Dean, what’s going on here? Why are you trying to get rid of me? Cas is on his way back and – ” Sam trailed off, his eyes narrowing as his gaze focused on Dean’s carefully neutral face. “It’s because of Cas, isn’t it?” he said.

“We have to talk,” Dean muttered, unable to meet his brother’s eye. “I-I can’t do that if you’re here, Sammy. I just can’t.”

“Okay, Dean. Okay. I’ll go. But you be gentle when you let him down, you hear me? You break that angel’s heart and I’ll punch you in the face.”

“Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence, Sam. I hope that ghost bites you on the ass.”

  


  


According to Google, and Dean checked twice just to be sure, it took twenty-one hours twenty-three minutes to drive from Los Angeles to Lebanon. Since Castiel didn’t need to stop any longer than it took him to refuel his truck (having no need for food, rest or washroom breaks), and he’d been on the road since his midnight texts arrived, that meant that he should get back to the Bunker shortly after 9:00 pm. That gave Dean ample time to run a few errands, tidy up, and work himself into a frenzy of nervous anticipation.

By the time the countdown to Castiel’s return finally narrowed down to a matter of minutes rather than hours, Dean was so antsy he found himself pacing in aimless circles, his gaze flicking back and forth between the clock on the wall and the flower he held in his hand.

When the creak of the Bunker’s door swinging open finally sounded, Dean stopped dead in his tracks, frozen in place like the proverbial startled deer. Heart pounding in his chest, he hovered on the brink of fleeing the room, or swooning like some overwrought maiden. In the end, he did neither – though there was a brief moment when it could have gone either way. Instead, before the first footstep fell on the stairs, even before the heavy outer door had time to fully close, he tucked the hand holding the flower behind his back, and resolutely turned to greet Castiel.

“Welcome back, Cas. Sorry your lead didn’t pan out.”

Castiel shrugged. “It was... worth a shot?” He sighed, striding past Dean to settle himself in the nearest chair. “I thought... I hoped, maybe... Never mind. How are you, Dean?”

Instead of answering, Dean slowly brought his hand out from behind his back, revealing the flower he had selected with such care. A rose. One single, perfect rose. Red and fragrant and held out with a hope that trembled in his breast. “For you,” he said, the blush staining his cheeks almost as red as the rose he held in his hand.

Castiel’s eyes widened and as quickly narrowed again. “Dean?” he growled, rising from his chair, the fingers of his right hand twitching, as if in anticipation of his angel blade sliding into his palm. “Is this some kind of a joke? Because if so, I fail to see the humour. In fact... are you even Dean?”

“Wh-what?” Dean sputtered. This was so not going the way he’d thought it would. He had expected the angel to tumble into his arms. They should be kissing by now, not glaring daggers at each other from several feet away. “Of course I’m Dean. I’m the guy you’ve been sending love letters to for the past two weeks. And this is me, giving you my reply. So take the damned rose, Cas, before I shove it up your feathery ass.”

Castiel frowned. Clearly the intonation was correct, but the words still did not sound like anything Dean Winchester would normally say – except for the ass part, that was classic Dean. “Thorn Apple, Bee Balm... Hemlock,” he said uncertainly.

“Is that last one even a flower? I thought it was a tree. Whatever. It sounds nasty.”

Cas stared at him unblinkingly.

“Fine.” Dean sighed. “Forget-me-nots, Dandelion, Honeysuckle, Tulips... any of those ring a bell?”

“What colour of tulip?” Castiel inquired, his lips twitching with the beginnings of a smile.

“Shit, Cas, I don’t know. Red? Is that okay with you?”

“That is more than acceptable.”

“Good. I’m glad we got that settled. I was running out of flowers.”

Dean scrubbed a hand through his hair, and took a deep breath. Once again, then, he held the rose out to Castiel. 

This time, the angel took it. For long, silent moments he stood staring at the gift with something approaching awe, before allowing his eyes to meet and lock with Dean’s.

“Do you mean it?” he said wonderingly, a slender finger caressing a soft petal.

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean replied, taking a few steps closer. “ I really do.”

Castiel stepped closer too. “Mistletoe,” he whispered.

And that, Dean was happy to say, was a message that required no translation whatsoever.

**Author's Note:**

> Sam has already decoded the flower texts he and Dean received, so I won't duplicate his work here. I will, however, supply meanings for the flowers which appear near the end of the fic, in order of appearance:
> 
> Rose (one single red) - I love you  
> Thorn Apple - Deceitful charms; suspicion  
> Bee Balm (aka Monarda) - Your whims are unbearable  
> Hemlock - You will be my death  
> Forget-me-nots -True love  
> Dandelion- Faithfulness  
> Honeysuckle - Bonds of love; devoted affection  
> Tulips (red) - Declaration of love; believe me  
> Mistletoe - Kiss me


End file.
